


We're Going Down, Down, Down To Mephisto's Cafe

by fightlikeagirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt, The End!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightlikeagirl/pseuds/fightlikeagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer is the one to pick him up and put him back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Going Down, Down, Down To Mephisto's Cafe

_If I were you, I would take this as a sign_  
 _Believe it's true, we were never meant to fly_  
 _And I owe you, I know you more than anyone alive_  
 _And I will not let go_  
—"Down, Down, Down to Mephisto's Cafe", Streetlight Manifesto 

 

Days pass, and Dean doesn't call. Weeks pass, and Dean doesn't call.

Sam's lost count of how many messages he's left. He doesn't know if Dean's even listened to them.

He leaves Keith behind, moves on to another small town, and another, and another. Lucifer visits his dreams occasionally, not often enough to even become something Sam can rely on. He doesn't say anything, just watches Sam with some kind of deep sadness.

He picks up the trail of a wendigo in Michigan, thinks about going after it. He considers the idea of running into another hunter in the area, and leaves Michigan.

He gets wasted, more so than he's been in a long time. He's not thinking straight, and maybe this is what makes him pick up the gun. He's not thinking about anything, not about Dean, not about Lucifer, just looking into the mirror and hating the reflection that's glaring back at him when he puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger.

\--

He wakes in a strange motel room, limbs too heavy, head feeling like it's been stuffed with cotton.

"That was foolish," a horribly familiar voice says from across the room. "You're lucky I was able to find you and put you back together before another of my brethren did. You can be sure they wouldn't have been nearly as gentle."

Lucky. Sam's never felt less lucky in his entire life. He touches the back of his head gingerly. There's nothing there, which isn't exactly surprising but—still. He still feels like there should be something.

Lucifer turns from where he's been standing at the window, a look of concern on his face. Sam hates it, hates the idea that the devil is the only person still capable of feeling affection for him.

There's a dozen different things he wants to say— _why did you have to bring me back, why does it have to be me, why are you still_ here—but what comes out is, "Where am I?"

"Nevada," Lucifer tells him, crossing his arms and looking faintly amused at the question. "Near Las Vegas."

"I was in Wyoming."

"This was easier." Lucifer doesn't elaborate, doesn't explain what he means, and Sam supposes it doesn't matter that much anyway. He slumps back against the pillows, rubbing at his forehead. He doesn't suppose the devil happens to have any Advil on him.

Lucifer crosses the room toward him, still with that look of care that makes Sam _sick_. He doesn't know how to deal with this—monsters he can kill, but affection is an entirely different matter. Lucifer raises a hand to his face and he flinches instinctively.

"Don't—"

Lucifer doesn't listen, doesn't even look like he's listening. His thumb brushes over Sam's forehead, and like angelic fucking Advil, his headache's gone. His fingers stroke gently through Sam's hair, and it should feel wrong, should feel like a violation, but it. Doesn't. It feels familiar and good and Sam hates that, too.

"You break my heart, Sam," Lucifer says. "You really do." Sam doesn't reply, just shuts his eyes and tries to pretend he's somewhere else, somewhere he doesn't have the devil standing over him, looking something close to sympathetic. The hand in his hair trails down his neck, lingers over his pulse point. "You're so beautiful, so perfect. And yet you continue to destroy yourself." He sits on the side of the bed, one hand curling around Sam's shoulder, the other cupping his jaw. "I don't understand why you destroy yourself."

Lucifer's touch is gentler than it ought to be, and Sam can't bring himself to pull away. "Leave me alone," he says anyway, knows he should at least make an effort to do the right thing here. "Please. Just go away."

"Promise me you won't do this to yourself again."

Sam does pull away then, turning on his side to face the wall. "I don't owe you anything."

"I won't watch you hurt yourself like this." Lucifer's voice is stern.

"Then don't watch!" Sam is sitting up abruptly, turning to glare at the fallen angel. "It's not like you can't just put me back together afterwards. Don't pretend that this is about me—stop acting concerned and protective because it's not. Going. To work."

Lucifer is frowning. "Sam."

There are tears pricking at the backs of his eyes and goddamn it, he is not going to cry in front of _Lucifer_. "Please just leave."

"If that's what you want."

When he looks up, Lucifer's gone. He tells himself that the room doesn't feel emptier.

\--

He stays in the motel room, sleeps for a day and a half. Staying here, knowing Lucifer can find him any time he wants, is probably dangerous but. He can't quite bring himself to leave. In any case, Lucifer doesn't come back.

On the third day, he hotwires a car and heads out of town. He doesn't know where he's going, just drives until he's too tired to keep going, and checks into a seedy motel. He's methodically cleaning his guns when there's a whisper like feathers behind him, and he doesn't have to turn around to know what it is.

"I hope you're not planning on doing anything tonight with those," Lucifer says mildly. Sam ignores him. Lucifer doesn't say anything else, just leans against the wall, watching him while he brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed.

"Are you planning to stay there all night?" Sam asks grumpily as he gets into bed.

"Yes," Lucifer says, as though it hadn't occurred to him that there was anything strange about it. "I like knowing you're safe."

"It doesn't make _me_ feel safe," Sam says, turning on his side and trying to ignore him.

"I won't hurt you, Sam," Lucifer says softly. "I'd never hurt you." And Sam believes him. It still doesn't make him feel better.

\--

Lucifer makes a habit of turning up in his motel rooms after that. Sometimes he stands at the window, staring out at the parking lot. Sometimes he sits down in one of the uncomfortable motel chairs, looking just a bit too deliberately casual. Sam gets used to it, used to the feeling of someone watching over him while he sleeps. His own joke of a guardian angel.

\--

He gets reckless. Gets into a barfight with a guy almost as big as he is, and definitely comes off worse for it. When he gets back to his room, Lucifer is there already, looking furious. Sam's never seen him angry like this, and it scares him.

He stalks toward Sam, and he can imagine Lucifer's wings twitching in fury. "What happened," Lucifer grits out, pushing Sam back against the wall with inhuman strength.

"It's nothing," Sam mutters. "I got in a barfight is all." Lucifer's hands clamp around his upper arms, then release him. His eyes are dark, glaring at Sam, and he shrinks back against the wall involuntarily.

"You did this to yourself." His tone is accusing, and hurt, somehow.

"I didn't punch myself in the face," Sam says defensively. Lucifer's face makes it very clear that he doesn't see the difference.

He doesn't say anything for a long while, just stands there, crowding Sam against the wall and staring at him. After a minute he lifts a hand to Sam's face, carefully smoothing the wrinkles from his forehead. "Let me heal you."

"I don't want you to."

"You think you deserve this. You think you deserve pain."

Sam swallows. "I started this. I started the apocalypse. I let you out."

Lucifer smiles humorlessly. "You'll forgive me if I don't see that as a bad thing."

Sam doesn't answer.

"Let me heal you."

Slowly, he nods, and Lucifer reaches up, cups his face, and melts away his black eye with cool fingers.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I wish there was another way."

\--

He wakes one night to find Lucifer standing over him, staring down at him, one hand coming up to brush along his cheek. His expression is unreadable. "Let me touch you."

Sam thinks about pointing out that Lucifer's already touching him, but knows that that's not what he's talking about. He exhales, and gives the smallest of nods.

Lucifer settles on the bed next to him, drawing back the sheets and sliding a hand up Sam's shirt. His hands are cold, and Sam can't help the noise that escapes him at the touch. "Lift up your arms."

Sam obeys, and Lucifer slides his shirt up and all the way off. His hands roam across Sam's body in soft, curious touches. It's innocent, in a way, and it makes Sam wonder when the last time Lucifer touched someone was. One thumb strays across the peak of a nipple, and his hips jerk up as Lucifer reaches down to tweak it.

It's not innocent anymore. This is—this is intimacy. Calloused hands trail along Sam's sides, and he wonders when it stopped bothering him how _right_ Lucifer's touch felt. He moves to straddle Sam's hips and leans down, brushing cool lips along his jaw. "You know you're mine," he says, softly, and Sam nods. "Good."

He draws Sam's boxers down his legs, slowly, carefully. Like he's a skittish horse Lucifer doesn't want to spook. "You understand, don't you," he says. "You understand that we were meant to be together."

Sam exhales. "Yeah." He can't—he can't deny the way Lucifer's touch lights something off in him, something deep and raw inside his chest.

Lucifer makes a pleased sound at that, stroking Sam's erection and—Jesus. His hips buck up into the touch, seeking more of Lucifer's touch, and he makes an embarrassing keening noise in the back of his throat. Lucifer smiles fondly at him, moving down the bed to lick along the side of his cock. He presses light kisses along the insides of Sam's thighs, pausing to suck at the skin of his hip until it bruises. The noises Sam's making at this point are shameless and wanton, little mewling sounds that he'd probably be embarrassed about if he wasn't so far gone.

Distantly, he's aware that he should probably be ashamed about this. Should be ashamed of falling apart so easily under the devil's hands. But it's a part of him that grows more distant with each passing day.

"Come on, Sam," Lucifer is whispering. "Come for me." And it's not like he's been able to deny that voice anything, lately.

It's still probably not entirely safe to fall asleep cradled in the devil's arms. But he does it anyway, because he doesn't think he has the energy left to fight feeling safe, feeling protected, like this.

"I know you're not ready yet," Lucifer whispers in his ear as he's drifting off. "I can wait. You'll let me in eventually."


End file.
